As We Saunter Vaguely Down WIP
by alishatorn
Summary: Charles/Azazeal!Erik.  Hex's Azazeal is played by Michael Fassbender, & Erik's personality pretty much overlaps his.  A young Charles Xavier is haunted by a mysterious stranger, a fallen angel by the name of Azazeal. Based loosely on the TV series HEX.
1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

Charles Francis Xavier is sixteen when he first notices the tall man in the window.

He's staring at a chess board with a book of Kasparov's most famous games open on his lap. He's recreating them, studying them with an intensity unmatched by most youths his age, and when his eyes flick to the window he sees him.

The man is tall and lean, dressed completely in black. His eyes are like stars, glowing faintly with blue light; Charles has never seen anyone quite like him.

The man smiles slowly, beckoning him forward with a slow curl of his fingers. Charles rises from his chair, walking slowly to the window sill.

"Who...?" Charles whispers, even though he knows he can't hear him. He can see the man quite clearly now, and he flushes slightly as the man leans forward. His hair is dark and slightly long, curling against the nape of his neck. He's very handsome.

Charles watches as he opens his mouth, exhaling a gust of moist air against the glass. It fogs, and with a casual flick of his index finger, begins to write.

"Azazeal," Charles reads aloud, when he's finished.

The man nods and smiles; a sharp glint of teeth in the darkness. He raises a hand again, pressing it flush against the glass. Seconds trickle past as Charles stares at him.

There's a hint of challenge in Azazeal's eyes, and the small smirk that plays against his lips overrides Charles' better judgment. He reaches up and presses his own hand against the window, feeling the cool glass beneath his palm. Azazeal's hand is much larger than his own.

"Hmm," Charles mutters, surprised. The glass is warmer than he expects, the heat of the other man's hand seeping through.

"What do you want?" Charles asks, but Azazeal merely smiles. It's softer now, less defined, and he slowly pulls his hand back. "Wait, where are you-?"

The door slams open and his sister stands there, hands on her hips and glaring. "There you are!" Raven says. "Mother has been calling you to dinner for the past ten minutes. Come along, Charles."

"But, I'm talking to-" Charles begins, turning back to the window. He stops short as he realizes there's no one there.

"Talking to who? Yourself?" Raven rolls her eyes. "There's plenty of time to do that later. If you don't make an appearance downstairs, mother will have your head. You know how she likes to show your genius off to her friends."

She tugs at his hand and Charles follows her reluctantly, eyeing the window. Had he imagined the whole thing? As he turns, the light catches the surface at an angle and he can clearly make out the fading handprint.

"Azazeal," he repeats, tasting the name. He's intrigued. Despite his interest, however, he does not see him again before he has to return to his boarding school in London, and Xavier finds the strange encounter slip from his mind.

In the darkness of the Westchester estate, Azazeal bides his time.

I.

Over the course of the next few months, Charles finds himself constantly feeling as if he's being watched. He's an exceptionally bright student and his professors know him to be studious and quiet, but after his return from his home in America during his sophomore year, he becomes even more so.

He withdraws from the chess club shortly after his return, choosing instead to spend his spare time alone in his dorm room. His friends see less and less of him, and when they press to see him, he begs off with claims to study. Eventually, they stop asking.

Charles himself has long since dismissed his encounter with Azazeal as the product of an overwrought imagination, but he cannot help the strange sensation that prickles the back of his neck. He feels it constantly; during his lessons, when he's taking meals at the cafeteria, even when he's running laps at the track.

He withdraws to his room as much as possible because here at least he can lock the doors and bar the windows. He keeps his head down and studies hard, and when the next break rolls around he spends it one of his family's vacation homes in Germany. When Christmas comes, Raven persuades the family to spend their holidays in Paris, and before Charles knows it, it's been an entire year before he's had to set foot back at the Westchester estate.

Charles tries to persuade his mother to let him stay in London for summer, but she insists that he return home to New York. She tells him that it will be good to spend time with his father, but Charles knows that she merely likes to have him around to show off to her friends. Such a bright boy with such a splendid mind; she never hesitated to point out what a promising career in genetics he was bound to have. Just like his step-father.

It's almost nightfall by the time the taxi pulls up to their estate. Charles hadn't wanted to cause a fuss, so he'd opted to take a cab from the airport rather than call for their chauffeur to come and fetch him.

"Thank you," he says to the driver, tipping generously. He hauls his suitcase out of the trunk and stares forlornly at the estate, listening to the car sputter as it pulls away.

The prickly feeling is back, of course; it's as constant as it is annoying. Charles glances around furtively, eying the dark edges of the surrounding trees. He's always prided himself on being completely logical, so he knows that Azazeal isn't real. He was a figment of his imagination and thus could not possibly be to blame for Charles' newfound paranoia.

"I'm going mad," he sighs. "And at the ripe old age of seventeen, to boot."

He laughs a little, hefting his suitcase in hand. He's halfway up the steps to the main door when a gust of wind makes him stop. It's as soft as a caress, like a hand rippling through the curls of his hair. Charles is so surprised that he drops his suitcase.

"Who's there?" he calls, whipping around. There's a faint rustle of leaves as a light footfall crunches through the grass. Charles feels his heart begin to beat faster as he looks around, desperately trying to see who's approaching.

The noise gets louder, the bushes ahead beginning to shake as a presence rapidly approaches. Charles would turn to run if he wasn't rooted to the spot by fear, watching in horrid fascination as the bushes part to reveal… the gardener's golden retriever, Banshee.

Charles sags visibly as the dog bounds over and gives him a few experimental licks. "Banshee, you scared the living daylights out of me," he sighs, kneeling to pet the enthusiastic dog. "Did Mr. Cassidy forget to close his gate, again?"

"He didn't, but I decided to let the animal out. He seemed eager to see you."

Charles freezes, his hands still buried in Banshee's coat. Eyes wide, he turns slowly, blood draining from his face as he sees /him/ standing a handful of feet away.

"You…" he whispers.

The man smiles, showing a row of perfect, white teeth. He extends a hand, casually pulling Charles to his feet when he hesitantly takes it. He's taller than Charles expected, and he cranes his neck a bit to meet his eyes.

"I thought I made you up," Charles mutters. "W-Who are you?"

Instead of answering, the man extends an index finger and tips Charles' chin up, leaning down until they're merely inches apart. Charles' heart is hammering wildly in his chest, but he somehow finds himself rooted to the spot. It's hardly a habit of his to be kissed by strange men, but Azazeal's eyes are so very, very blue.

"You know who I am," Azazeal whispers. His lips are as close to Charles's mouth as he can get without actually kissing him. His breath is moist and smells faintly of smoke; it's surprisingly pleasant.

"I really don't," Charles mutters, his eyes fluttering shut despite himself. He's never kissed anyone before, not really, (Moira behind the bleachers didn't count), and his heart is doing strange flips in his chest as Azazeal draws even nearer.

"Charles?"

His eyes snap open and he's suddenly tackled by a slight, blue-clad figure. "Raven!" he exclaims, arms going around her instinctively.

"It's so good to see you," she says, laughing. "What were you doing out here? I thought I heard you talking to someone!"

"I…" Charles begins, looking around. Apart from he and Raven, they're completely alone. Even Banshee has run off. "Just talking to myself, I guess. It's good to be home, sister."

He releases her and grabs his suitcase, following her inside. Somehow, he thinks this isn't the last he's seen of the mysterious Azazeal.

II.

Despite his piqued interest, Charles doesn't see any more of Azazeal that summer. He finds his gaze constantly drawn to the windows of their estate, and though he contrives to find himself on the grounds well after the sun has gone down, he does not see even a glimpse of the other man.

He returns to London for his final year of school at the end of the summer, no closer to solving the mystery that is Azazeal. He had asked Raven if she knew of any of their employees matching his description, but she'd been unable to think of anyone. He hadn't bothered to ask his mother as she knew the help even less than Raven did, and Azazeal didn't exactly look like he'd be their new gardener or handyman. It had been frustrating, to say the least, and Charles hated the little mystery.

Still, there had been nothing to be done for it. Summer had ended and he'd been left with no choice but to return to boarding school. Raven had almost seemed surprised when he'd told her he'd try to return home for their semestral break, but hadn't commented on his change of heart. She knew her brother was a strange one; she'd long since given up trying to decipher him.

Charles sighs softly as he makes his way to his dorm room. It's his first day back at school and the Wolfram halls are wide and echoing. He hadn't really missed this place over the summer, as it seems even larger and more desolate than Westchester. He shoves his key in the lock and eyes his new room; it's slightly larger than his last one, and has a nice view of the lake.

"Hello, Charles." It's Moira, of course, who drops by to see him first. He's still in the middle of unpacking when she calls out to him, hovering in his doorway.

"Moira," says Charles. "It's good to see you. Why don't you come inside?" He smooths an imaginary wrinkle on the arm of his blazer, smiling slightly. They haven't been the closest of friends lately, not since his preoccupation last year, but he decides that this year will be different. He's spent far too much time hiding in his room; it's time to see his friends again.

"You look like you're in a good mood," Moira observes. She leans over to give him a quick peck on the cheek, winking when he reddens. "Now, now, Xavier, none of that. You know I'm not interested in you in the slightest."

"No, of course not," Charles replies, laughing. " You're seeing Emma now, aren't you?" He grins at her undignified squeak, twisting away as she attempts to pinch his side.

"You terrible gossip! Where on earth did you hear that rumor?" Moira demands, hands on her hips.

"I read your mind," Charles jokes. "Haven't I told you I'm psychic?"

Moira snorts inelegantly. "Keep your secrets, then," she says, then sobers. "I can trust you to keep this between us, can't I?" 

"Of course," Charles replies, blinking. "You can trust me, Moira."

She regards him for a moment longer, then nods a little, almost to herself. "All right," she says. "Well, I'd better finish unpacking, too. I just wanted to drop in and say hello."

She reaches over to ruffle his hair, dancing away when he attempts to retaliate. Moira slams the door behind her, hard enough to make him wince. With a sigh, he turns back to his suitcase and attempts to sort through his shirts.

"She's a fiery one," a calm voice behind him states, and Charles freezes.

The door is still tightly shut, and he was certain that the room had been empty when he'd entered. That only left the window, which couldn't possibly make sense since his room was four stories up.

Charles blinks rapidly, fighting to keep the panic from his voice. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

"You've been looking for me, haven't you?" The voice is much closer now, silky smooth and just at his left ear. "I apologize if I haven't been to see you."

Strong hands appear at his waist, urging him to turn around and Charles does so, blue eyes wide. "You're following me," he says. He spares a thought to wonder why he isn't more frightened, but Azazeal brushes a knuckle against his cheek and Charles finds that he isn't really thinking much of anything at all.

"I've been watching you for some time now," Azazeal replies easily. The admission should have been more disturbing than it actually sounded, and Charles knows that he should be shoving the other man away. He barely knows him, he's admitted to stalking him, for god's sake, and now he's broken into Charles' dorm room and—oh.

Now he was kissing him, apparently, bringing their lips together in a soft, almost chaste manner. Charles finds it abruptly very difficult to breathe, and the hands that have gone up to shove Azazeal away have in fact gone to grip at the collars of his coat.

Charles finds himself quite unable to compare this to the kiss he'd shared with Moira in the past (when they'd both been trying to convince themselves they could be straight), and he's wondering at the strange breathy moans that he hears before realizing they're coming from /him/.

Azazeal's hands tighten briefly at his waist; the kiss has grown deeper, Charles' lips parting easily and Azazeal's tongue slips inside. His mind has grown to a keen point of lust/want/need, and he's pressing himself against Azazeal in a way that would embarrass him on any other day. When the other man pulls away, Charles' eyes flutter open in mild shock. It's like someone has thrown a bucket of ice water on him.

"Wh-what just happened?" he asks shakily, and Azazeal presses another kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"It's too soon," he says, with something akin to regret in his voice. He's staring at Charles' mouth, kiss-swollen and red. "I should go."

"When will I see you again?" Charles asks, grabbing his elbow. He knows he sounds desperate and it horrifies him, but his heart is racing and suddenly it's the most important question in the world.

Azazeal stills. "I'm always around, Charles." The way he says his name makes it sound like a caress. "I've been waiting for you for quite a while."

A noise out in the hall distracts Charles before he can reply, and when he turns back to Azazeal, he's gone. Charles' head whips around in confusion, but he's quite alone in the room. The window is open, however, and he runs to it and peers outside.

Impossibly (as there's no fire escape), he sees Azazeal striding swiftly across the lawn below.

He doesn't look back.

III.

Months pass before Charles sees Azazeal again. He tries to ignore the strange twinge in his chest whenever he catches himself looking at en empty window; the disappointment fades as the weeks go by.

On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, Moira and Emma persuade him to join them at a local club. It's not exactly his cup of tea, but he's never been and he figures it's time for a change.

His lips twists as he stares at the rows of sweater vests and button-downs in his closet; he's not exactly fashionable, but even he knows that none of it is club attire. He puts on jeans and a t-shirt in the end, hoping that the novelty of seeing him in something without a collar will make Moira laugh.

She does, when she sees him. "Charles, you almost look normal," she says teasingly, taking his arm. "Emma had to go with some of her friends; we'll meet her inside."

They line up with the rest of the crowd outside the club, the electric neon lights casting a strange glow around everything. Charles runs a hand through his hair, returning the smile of a young man in his Physics class when he catches his eye.

"Hello Hank," he says, when the other walks up to him. "I didn't figure you for the clubbing type."

"I'm not," Hank replies easily. "I was surprised when Moira told me you were having a party here, actually."

Charles looks at Moira sharply, who's smiling angelically. Hank's back is turned to her, and she mouths 'you're welcome' as the bouncer waves them inside.

"I reserved a private table for the /party/," Moira says loudly. "Emma's already there. Come along, Hank!" 

She pushes Hank ahead of her as Charles pantomimes strangling her behind Hank's back. It was sweet of Moira to surprise him, but he wasn't sure how he felt about being setup with Hank. He barely knows the other man, after all, and though they get along very well in class, he isn't even sure if he's gay.

Emma waves at them from the upper landing, and Moira leads them to the circular table she's reserved. It's hardly the best table in the club, but it's partly concealed with some red drapery and Charles appreciates the gesture.

The steady pulse of the music is slightly muted from here, and Charles' face splits open in a grin when he realizes that Emma's got company.

"Alex, Sean!" he says, shaking hands with the boys. He'd been tutoring both of them in the more advanced mathematics classes during their freshman year, but they'd remained friends as they progressed. As he was a year ahead, he hadn't had much time to see them lately and he appreciated the gesture.

He introduces them to Hank, and Moira orders a round of drinks. "On Charles' tab, of course," she grins, presenting his credit card to the waitress.

Charles shakes his head good-naturedly, grimacing a bit as she hands him a glass of amber-colored liquid. "I won't ask how you got your hands on that," he says. "But I trust I'll be getting it back after tonight?"

"And maybe a shopping spree tomorrow," Emma drawls, sipping her drink. "I've been eying this little white jumpsuit at the boutique, actually."

Moira's eyes glitter hopefully at Charles, but he shakes his head. "Don't even think about it, my dear," he says.

"Spoilsport," she replies fondly. "Happy birthday, Charles."

Everyone raises their glasses in a toast, and Charles smiles. It isn't what he'd imagine his eighteenth birthday to be like, but it's not a bad surprise. Not bad at all.

It doesn't take long for the little group to degenerate into utter drunkenness; Charles doesn't make a habit of imbibing, and his tolerance is ridiculously low. Moira is sprawled on Emma's lap and has her hands buried in her golden hair; Sean's eyes are practically popping out of his head.

Charles stares blearily at his glass, trying to decide if it's half empty or half full. "If it's half empty, I really must order another," he mutters, turning to Hank. Except Hank is deeply engaged in conversation with Alex, who's trying to ask intelligent questions about one of Hank's experiments. It's a bit of a disaster really, as Hank is very drunk and is talking about theoretical applications whilst Alex is trying not to fall into his martini.

The drapes blocking out the rest of the club are shut almost completely, and it takes Charles a few moments to register that someone has begun to slide them open. They're mechanized, and the button controlling them is located at the side of the table. Charles presses it, frowning when nothing happens.

"This is a private booth, my friend!" he calls out finally, and Moira giggles. "O-only us allowed here!"

"Yes, private!" Moira yells. "Go away, whoever you are!"

Apparently the din of the club outside has drowned out their voices, because the drapes don't stop. Charles gets up unsteadily, climbing over Hank and making a grab for the edge of the curtain.

"Private party!" he shouts, promptly tripping and sprawling on the floor. He rubs his elbow and waits for the room to stop spinning. Had he really drank that much? "Ouch."

He looks up when a large, slender hand is offered to him, and his next words die in his chest.

"Charles," Azazeal says, and his eyes are twinkling in the dim light. "I think you've had a bit too much to drink."

"Who is it? Do you know this guy?" Moira's voice is unsteady as she pulls herself away from Emma and gets to her feet.

Charles allows himself to be tugged gently to his feet, feeling undeniable warmth radiating from Azazeal's palms. "I…" he looks into the other man's eyes, pale and beautiful, and swallows hard. "I know him. He's a… friend from home."

"From Westchester?" Moira asks incredulously, but Charles is already grabbing his jacket from the seat.

"I'm… We're going to go," he says, stumbling a little in his haste. He can see Azazeal watching him in amusement from the corner of his eye. "Moira, I-I'll see you tomorrow. Night. Or something."

And he grabs Azazeal's hand and pulls him away from the alcove, and into the press of people in the club below.

IV.

It's an entirely reckless thing to do, but Charles figures he deserves the indulgence. Azazeal's hand is warm and he grips it tightly as he leads him through the crowd.

"Dare I ask where you're taking me?" His voice is silky and unbearably close to Charles' ear.

"We need to talk," he replies, but he doubts Azazeal can even hear him over the din. The alcohol is still racing through his system; his skin feels hot to the touch. "Just come with me."

The crush of people on the dance floor is almost overwhelming, but Charles soldiers on. Cutting across it is the fastest way to the exit, and Charles is in no mood to wait. He's acutely aware of Azazeal's solid presence close behind him, and he falters slightly when his hand begins to slip away.

"What-?" He begins, but rather than disengage, Azazeal snakes his hand around Charles' waist and pulls him flush against his body. It's an intimate position, far too much for him to feel comfortable doing in the middle of a dance floor, and Charles' breath catches in his throat.

"What are you doing?" he murmurs, looking down to see Azazeal's fingers splayed across his stomach. "People can see!"

"Let them look," Azazeal replies easily. He drops a kiss on the side of Charles' neck, his other hand coming up to join the other at his waist. "You're beautiful, Charles. A diamond in the rough."

Charles is unable to help the moan that escapes from his lips when Azazeal bites gently at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. "I… we should go," he whispers. "We need to go back."

"Go back where?" Azazeal asks in amusement. "Do you want me to take you to bed, Charles?" One of his hands has found its way under Charles' thin t-shirt, and it's rubbing slow, maddening circles against his stomach. Charles is painfully hard, breathless with arousal, and his fingers dig crescents into Azazeal's forearms.

"Does this excite you?" Azazeal continues, lips at his ear. "Do you like being watched?"

"Yes, I mean… no," Charles replies. "I mean, I don't… I have no idea."

"Perhaps I can help clear your mind, then," Azazeal replies. He grips Charles' waist and maneuvers him into turning around, tipping his chin up to capture his mouth in a heated kiss. The music around them shifts to a feverishly fast song, and the crowd moves frenetically to its beat, jostling them this way and that. Charles doesn't even notice.

He parts his lips eagerly, taking Azazeal's tongue in his mouth and twining it with his own. His hands have gone up to clutch at the other's shirt, a moan escaping as Azazeal pulls him tightly against his body, pressing them together from thigh to chest. Charles can feel him, rock hard against his thigh, and it isn't enough, not nearly enough.

"Is this what you wanted?" Azazeal whispers against his mouth. His hands are tight on Charles' wrists and his breathing is ragged. "Tell me, Charles, how you intended this night to end."

Charles' mouth is flushed and wet, deep red and inviting. "I want to be with you," he says, faltering. "I want you to f-fuck me."

Azazeal's gaze is smoldering. "And do you know what that means?" he asks. He steals another kiss, nipping none-too-gently at his lower lip. "Do you have any idea what giving yourself to me would be like?"

"I want to find out," Charles replies, eyes wanton and hooded. "Please."

Azazeal smiles; a sharp glint of teeth in the darkness. "Very well."

V.

Charles isn't sure how they manage to get to his dormitory- he's so drunk with lust that he can barely see straight, much less walk. He remembers being pressed up against the lockers at one point, heart hammering in his chest, as Azazeal holds his wrists loosely above him, one hand cupping him through his jeans.

His hands are shaking badly by the time they reach his floor, and he drops his keys in an attempt to open the door.

"Charles." Azazeal waves a hand, and the door swings open with an audible click. Charles swallows hard.

"This is mad," he says breathlessly, when they're finally, finally inside. "I barely know you…"

Azazeal chuckles darkly. "Isn't that what makes it good?" he whispers, trailing his knuckles against Charles' flushed cheek. "The fact that you know it's wrong, but you're going to do it, anyway?"

He doesn't wait for an answer this time, merely steps into Charles' space and kisses him again, mouthing over the pulse points in his neck as if listening to his heartbeat. Charles moans, trying not to tremble as Azazeal pushes his jacket off of his shoulders and helps divest him of his shirt.

His chest is pale in the darkness; moonlight casts slivers of light into the room. In spite of himself, Charles shivers. "I want to see you, too," he mumbles, stopping Azazeal's hands when they dip lower. "Please."

The other man smirks, leaning back enough to give Charles room to unbutton his shirt. Charles' breath catches in his throat when faded scars and strange writing are revealed under his questing hands; the symbols are beautiful. He says as much to Azazeal, whose smirk turns into something softer, more genuine, and it isn't long before he divests them of the remainder of their clothing.

Azazeal presses against Charles once more, bracing him against the wall, and the sensation of skin against skin nearly makes his knees buckle. He's hard, painfully so, and he's unable to hold back a moan when Azazeal takes him in hand.

"That's it," Azazeal whispers against his mouth. "I want to hear you, love..."

Charles' hips are canting to the rhythm of his hand, and his own hands are unable to do much more than grip at Azazeal's shoulders. He can't think, his mind consumed with the sensation of Azazeal's tongue in his mouth, the rapid beating of his heart, the cold wall against his feverishly hot skin.

When he comes, his back arches in pleasure and Azazeal swallows every sound he makes. He trembles in the tight tunnel off Azazeal's grip, spending himself in the palm of the other's hand. When he finishes, he's all but sagging down the wall, but the other man holds him steady.

"Bed," Azazeal whispers hoarsely, and Charles manages to stumble the two feet it takes to get to it. The other is close behind, laying a steadying hand on Charles' lower back.

"On your knees," he urges, and Charles struggles to comply, trying to get his limbs to follow his commands. He manages to do so with Azazeal's help, and he'd be embarrassed to see himself in this position- on all fours with his ass in the air- but he's too far gone to care.

He feels Azazeal press a finger inside him, slick and dripping with liquid, and Charles realizes with a start that he's being prepared with his own come. The very thought makes his cock twitch again, and he moans when the first finger is joined by a second. It burns, just a little, and it's different from the times Charles has done this to himself, better somehow.

A third finger now, twisting in just so, and Charles thoughts go abruptly blank as Azazeal brushes against somewhere inside him that makes his toes curl into the bedspread.

"Oh," Charles whimpers, low in his throat, and damned if he isn't almost hard again. Azazeal's moving three fingers in and out of him steadily, working them until he's loose and pliant and canting his hips backwards. "Please, please…" He doesn't even know what he's asking for, only that he wants more of it, and now.

Azazeal pulls his fingers away and positions himself against Charles' entrance, the blunt head of his cock so much bigger than his fingers and Charles has no idea how it's going to possibly fit. He takes a deep, shuddering breath when Azazeal begins to push inside, mouth fixed in a small 'o' of pleasure and pain. The slick, slow burn as he takes someone inside of him for the first time, the enormity of the sensation. It almost consumes him.

Azazeal makes a small comforting noise as he caresses his flank, waiting patiently for Charles' tensed muscles to ease up before going further.

"Shh," he whispers. "It's all right, love…"

Charles takes a shallow breath as Azazeal resumes pushing inside him, his mind focused on a single point of pleasure. He can feel himself being opened so very gently, filled further than he ever thought possible, and his cock juts proudly from his between his legs.

He feels Azazeal's fingers ghost over his cock, humming in approval as he feels Charles' obvious pleasure. "You're so beautiful like this," he whispers, almost to himself, before finally beginning to move.

He starts slowly at first, thrusting shallowly as Charles becomes accustomed to his girth. He can see the tense lines of the other's back, slick with sweat as he takes Azazeal's cock, breathy moans issuing from his lips.

"More," Charles whispers, and it's a broken sound, wanton and lustful. He moves his hips in time to Azazeal's thrusts, coming back to meet him as he pushes into him in earnest. "Azazeal… please… I need…"

He exhales raggedly when Azazeal pulls out of him completely, pliant when the other urges him onto his back.

"I want to see you, too," Azazeal whispers, leaning down to kiss him. He pushes into Charles in one swift movement, burying himself to the hilt. Charles cries out, every nerve-ending on fire, and he's able to do little more than moan when Azazeal resumes his maddening rhythm.

His cock bobs between them, sweat making it move slickly against their stomachs. Azazeal sucks a deep red mark into the side of his neck and Charles takes it, spreading his legs as far as he can. Azazeal's hands leave red fingerprints on his wrists as he fucks into him, pace quickening.

When Azazeal comes, he bites down hard on Charles shoulder, his teeth leaving a neat half-moon on his fair skin. He shudders briefly as he spends himself deep into the other's body, Charles arms holding him tightly.

"Perfection," he murmurs against Charles' mouth, before reaching down and cupping his still-hard cock between his legs. "In every way."

Charles gasps at the sensation of the warm fingers, back arching when it's soon followed by Azazeal's mouth.

Bliss.

VI.

When Charles wakes up the next morning, he's sore in places he's never been. There's no trace of Azazeal, and if not for the marks on his neck and the pleasant ache between his legs, he would've thought the entire encounter a dream.

He blinks, slowly becoming aware of a distant banging resounding throughout the room. He staggers out of bed, pulling a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt on.

"J-just a second," he says hoarsely, stumbling to his door. It's Moira, of course, and there's clear concern in his eyes as she looks him over.

"Holy shit," she breathes, grabbing him by the elbow and pushing her way past him. "What happened last night, Charles? Tell me everything or I swear to god…"

Charles runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know what you want me to say," he says finally. "I met up with an old friend from Westchester."

"An old friend?" Moira repeats incredulously. "Charles, you look like you just went five rounds with that guy- who the hell is he, and why haven't you ever mentioned him before?"

"He's just… His name's Azazeal, all right?" Charles says vaguely. "Look, it's really none of your business. I don't know why you're pushing this."

Moira shakes her head, stung. "I care about this," she repeats. "Because I care about you, Charles. Look, if you're happy, I won't argue, but… promise me you won't do anything stupid, all right?"

But Charles has already wandered off to his en suite bathroom, and the dazed look on his face tells her that she's got her work cut out for her.

VII.

Over the next few weeks, Charles goes through the motions of his life. He slips back into the habit of going to classes, taking tests, and tutoring Sean and the others. He even spends time with Moira when she's not busy with Emma, and he musters enough of his old self back that she doesn't quite look at him with worry in her eyes. His day-to-day life is much the same as it's always been, and his grades are as high as ever.

"Dinner later?" Moira asks one day, and Charles sheepishly holds up his book bag.

"Afraid not," he says. "I'm going to be hitting the books again."

Moira rolls her eyes fondly and nudges him with her shoulder. "Nerd," she says, but a smile softens her words. She walks with him down the corridor and promptly ditches him as soon as Emma comes out of her classroom. "Don't study too hard!"

"I won't," Charles says, watching them link arms and disappear from sight. His smile lingers as he walks slowly out to the courtyard and into the dorms, up the winding staircase and into his room.

The door opens before his hand even touches the knob, and he steps inside with a sigh.

"I missed you," he whispers quietly, eyes adjusting to the dim light. The lights are off and the afternoon sun is all but gone. Azazeal likes the darkness so very much.

"Did you?" The voice behind him is low, amusement coloring the words. "You're insatiable, Charles."

Large, warm hands grip his waist, turning him round gently. Azazeal's gaze is hot. "You wouldn't have me any other way, would you?" Charles asks, winding his arms around the other's neck. His lips are bare inches away.

"Not as such." Azazeal's smile is like a razor in the darkness. He closes the distance between them.

Later, when they're tangled on Charles' bed in a sticky heap, he remembers that he knows so very little about his mysterious lover. He's mesmerizing, he truly is, but even through the haze of desire that Charles perpetually feels when they're together, he can't shake the feeling that there is something truly wrong with Azazeal.

His strange disappearances notwithstanding, there's something about him—the way he touches Charles, the way he holds him like he's starving for it—that feels almost unreal.

"Azazeal." He says the name, tasting the word. The man's arms tighten around him briefly; a reassuring squeeze. "Can I ask you something?"

"You really /are/ insatiable," Azazeal murmurs, lips ghosting on his temple. Charles snorts inelegantly.

"Not like that! A proper question," Charles protests, propping himself up on his elbows. "I want… I want to get to know you."

He raises a brow. "I'd say you know me fairly well, Charles," he says, a half-smile playing across his mouth. "But go on. Ask your questions."

Charles frowns, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. "Who… who are you?" he asks. "Where do you come from? How did you find me?"

Even in the dim light, Azazeal's eyes burn like twin stars. "I found you," he says, fingers tracing the curve of Charles' jaw. "Because I will always find you, no matter what far-flung school your parents choose to banish you to. As for who I am and where I come from…"

He holds out a hand almost lazily and gestures, and the lights come on with a snap. "Perhaps you'd better just see for yourself."


	2. Chapter 2

VIII.

It takes a while for Charles' eyes to adjust against the influx of light, but when they do, he doesn't quite know where to look first.

The tattoos are certainly worthy of his attention, all intricate patterns and words written in a language that he had never seen before. They're almost iridescent, whiter than Azazeal's already pale skin, catching the light and shifting minutely as he breathes.

Charles wants to touch them, to taste them on his tongue, but the shadows behind Azazeal stop him. They're large, spanning the far wall, and what they are, what they *tell* him, makes his heart skip a beat.

"You're… you're an…?" And somehow the word 'angel' doesn't quite make it past Charles' lips, as ludicrous as it is. His mouth is as dry as dust and he's dizzy with the weight of it; it would be simpler if it was a cruel joke, but oh, now it all begins to make sense.

He'd thought Azazeal was special, certainly, what with his uncanny ability to materialize wherever Charles was. He and Hank had mused about the concept of mutated humans on more than one occasion, and one of Charles' more far-fetched daydreams had involved Azazeal being one such person. But this… this was beyond Charles' wildest imaginings.

This was the stuff of legend, of mysticism and magic- and Charles, with his science and his logic—didn't believe a word of it.

"How …?" Charles gets out, fingers hovering above Azazeal's chest. The tattoos seems to shine brighter as his hand nears them, and Azazeal solemnly takes his hand.

"Nephelim," he says. "That's what I am, and as for where I come from… There's quite a bit of lore attached to that."

He presses a kiss to the palm of Charles' hand who, to his credit, doesn't pull away. "I won't bore you with the details, but suffice to say… I'm very old, by human standards. Ancient, even, and I've walked this earth for many centuries," he says. "I've been looking for something, and I've been looking for it for a very long time."

Charles nods dumbly, mind racing. It's not every day that you're told that your lover isn't even human, and he's suitably shocked. The only thing he's certain of is that Azazeal isn't a threat to him, and that if he wanted to hurt him, he'd have done so by now. "What are you looking for?" he finds himself asking, searching the other's eyes.

"Hope," Azazeal replies. "Hope for my brothers and sisters, trapped as we are in these immortal forms. We're not quite angels anymore, and we've been cursed to walk on this plane til the end of time, forever banished from the astral plane. From our true home."

"Oh." Charles bites his lip. "What did… why were you banished?"

Azazeal smiles softly, reaching out to grip Charles' chin. "Angels were not meant to dally with humans," he says. "We were banished for daring to love someone of your kind."

"I… I see," Charles says, unable to quell the inexplicable surge of jealousy rising in his chest. So Azazeal had loved another human, had been cast out of his home because of it?

"Must have been some human," he jokes, trying to leaven the moment, and Azazeal smiles.

"Yes," he says softly. "Yes, you were."

IX.

It's well past midnight when Azazeal removes himself from Charles' room, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat. He makes his way across the school's manicured lawns, taking in deep lungfulls of the cold night air. His skin feels warm, and he wants nothing more than to take Charles into his arms, to greet the rising sun with a smile.

But he has business to attend to, and Azazeal does not shirk his responsibilities.

He senses Janos before he sees him, and he sighs inwardly before turning to face him. "What do you want?" he asks, eying the other nephelim with mild distaste. Janos has always been beautiful, but his is a dark beauty—whatever love he bore for his human had long since gone, leaving only a bitter shell.

"It's true, then," Janos says. "Yours was reborn."

"Your penchant for stating the obvious is astounding," Azazeal returns. "It's Charles."

Janos smiles, white teeth glinting. "Excellent," he says. "Sebastian will be most pleased."

Azazeal's blood runs cold. "He already knows?"

"He does," Janos says. "And he's on his way here to see you both."

Azazeal shakes his head. "It's far too soon," he says, frowning. "Charles isn't ready—he barely knows me."

Janos tilts his head, scenting the air. "You've already coupled," he says. "Love can't be far behind, surely."

"He's not ready," Azazeal repeats, clenching his hands into fists. What he wants to do and what he must do… are not one and the same. His heart pounds at the thought of it.

"Then *make* him ready," Janos replies easily. If it had been his lover reborn, Azazeal has no doubt that Janos wouldn't even hesitate. He has no grace left. "Sebastian is coming. He's a week away, at most. Be ready."

Janos reaches out, gripping Azazeal's forearm in what's meant to be a comforting manner, but he slaps it away.

"Get your hands off of me," he grinds out, and Janos shrugs.

"As you will." He fades slightly, like a projector stuttering against the light. "One week, Azazeal."

And then he's gone.

Later that night, Azazeal dreams for the first time in ages.

He dreams of the past, of Charles as he was back then, when men rode on horses and fought wars with bows and swords. He was not an important man, just a scribe to an aging duke, and Azazeal had chanced upon him entirely by accident.

The time of meddling had long since passed, and now angels spent their time amusing themselves on their own plane. Azazeal had always been fond of earth, however, and Charles had just so happened to wander into a stream that he was currently swimming in.

He had always liked humans—they were brash and foolhardy at times, but also kind and gentle. He had never spoken to one directly, (angelic appearances tended to be in the form of flaming swords or burning bushes), and now that all contact had been forbidden, curiosity got the better of him.

So Azazeal had hidden his wings and revealed himself to the startled Charles, (friendly enough after being scared nearly out of his wits), and thus their friendship had started.

It's a pleasant enough memory, sweet nostalgia pouring through the dream, but Azazeal wakes in a cold sweat anyway. He'd started violently as soon as their fingers touched in the dream, and he blinks blearily at his surroundings.

Sunlight streams from the windows of the ruined church that he has claimed as his own, and he runs a hand through his hair. He eyes the images on the stained glass above him with no small measure of distaste.

"You're a bastard," he says, but his father doesn't reply.

Azazeal expects nothing less; after the fall, only silence has reigned for the nephelim.

X.

It's two days later when Azazeal returns to Charles- the longest they've been apart since they'd begun the physical side of their relationship. Charles is hunched over his desk, writing furiously in what looks like one of his schoolbooks, and he starts when Azazeal's fingers ghost across the back of his neck.

"Wh-where have you been?" Charles exclaims, practically vaulting into his arms. "When you didn't show, I didn't know how to contact you… I was afraid you'd been hurt!"

Azazeal smiles softly. "It takes a great deal to damage me, I'm afraid," he says. "I merely had business elsewhere."

And business he had, as he'd spent the past forty-eight hours bent over the dustiest of tomes, trying in vain to search for another way to free the nephelim. There had been none, of course—the others had been scouring the same volumes for centuries. As ever, the Ritual of Letting remains the only path back to the astral plane.

Azazeal does not desire the return to his home any less than his brothers do—he yearns for the eternal just as they. Each century passed on the mortal plane is as excruciating as the last, and time does not pass any faster for their kind then it does for humans. Azazeal wants to go home.

But the price of doing so… He does not know if he can bear it.

He runs his fingers through Charles' soft hair, reveling in the feel of it. It's been so long since their first affair, he's almost forgotten what it feels like to be in love. He closes his eyes, trying to fight against the rush of memories, but they are unrelenting.

He remembers it so clearly. Three centuries ago, Sebastian had called a meeting, promising that he had found a way to bring them back home. He'd revealed the Ritual to the nephelim then, and Azazeal hadn't even hesitated in voicing his assent.

All it would take, Sebastian had told them, would be a human's willing sacrifice. If given freely to fire and blood, the host would be freed. But, as the ancient tomes had revealed, it could not be just any human. It would have to be the human they'd been cast out for. Their mortal soul, their *love*, serving as the bridge between the planes.

The Ritual's price was high, but all the nephelim had agreed to pay it. The only trouble lay in the fact that it had been centuries since the Fall, and their lovers had all passed on in the way that humans did. The nephelim had no choice but to wait then, in the vain hope that one of their lovers would be reborn, and had been waiting since.

Humans settled in paradise so very rarely chose to return, after all, and Azazeal could scarcely believe that one would willingly leave. He never thought it would be Charles, having passed on after they'd lived out a full life together, in the relative peace of the countryside. He had no reason to return.

"What's wrong, love?" Charles whispers, breaking into his thoughts. His eyes are the brightest Azazeal's ever seen them. "You're miles away."

The price had been so easy to pay when he'd thought he wouldn't be the one to pay it. He forces a smile. "Nothing," he replies. He presses a kiss to Charles' temple, trying to smooth the frown that mars it.

"Nothing at all."

It's the first lie he's ever told him, and he knows it won't be the last.

XI.

Three nights later, Sebastian finds them.

Azazeal had persuaded Charles to take a walk with him out on the school's spacious grounds, hoping the night air would help clear his mind. They'd dodged Moira easily enough, and now Azazeal allows himself to entertain the notion of fleeing.

/I can take Charles,/ Azazeal thinks, as he strokes a thumb against the inside of the other's palm. /Take him and run./

The nephelim possess many gifts, but they're hardly all seeing. If Azazeal is smart about it, he can keep them moving, keep them ahead of the others. It's not going to be much of a life, not really, but at least they'll be together.

Charles is looking at him with a beatific smile on his face, trusting and perfect. Azazeal's heart clenches in his chest.

"Do you trust me?" he asks him, brushing his lips against Charles' knuckles.

"Of course," Charles replies immediately. "Azazeal… what's wrong? You've been acting strangely all week."

He steps closer to him, wrapping his arms around his waist in what's meant to be a gesture of comfort, but it makes Azazeal ache inside.

"I don't want to lose you," he says, leaning down to claim Charles' mouth in a kiss, soft and fitted. Charles practically sags into his embrace.

"You won't," he replies. His hands tighten on Azazeal's hips. "I'm not going anywhere."

And it's at this point while Azazeal wavers, caught between his lover's eyes and the promise of home, when Sebastian chooses to make his appearance.

He's always been a quiet one, and as he steps forward from a shadowy alcove, Azazeal goes completely still.

"Hello, Azazeal," Sebastian says pleasantly, though his smile is anything but. He's clad in a pure white suit, perhaps even more resplendent than he was before the Fall, and he brushes imaginary dirt from his sleeves. "And you must be Charles."

Azazeal has unconsciously stepped forward, keeping the younger man half-hidden behind him, but at the mention of his name, Charles tilts his head.

"Charles Xavier," he says, peering out from behind Azazeal and extending a hand. "Are you a friend of Azazeal's?"

Sebastian's eyes glitter dangerously as he looks at Charles' hand, and he raises a brow at Azazeal before reaching out. "Are we friends?" he asks, shaking Charles' hands. "Perhaps, perhaps not. We're more like brothers, really. We go back quite a long way."

"What are you doing here, Sebastian?" Azazeal breaks in, stepping forward. "Janos said you wouldn't be here for a week."

"I was… eager to make young Charles' acquaintance," Sebastian replies easily. His eyes flick toward a point behind Azazeal, and the warning rings clear. /We're watching you. Don't try anything./

Azazeal swallows, laying a hand on Charles' shoulder. "Well, now you've met him," he says. "I really must insist he return to his room; he has lessons in the morning."

Sebastian smiles. "Of course," he says. "I wouldn't dream of keeping you up late."

He eyes Charles, then takes a casual step back. "We're having a gathering tomorrow night," he says. "And we'd love for you to join us, Charles... Azazeal's other brothers and sisters can't wait to meet you."

Charles shrugs. "I'm quite busy at the moment," he says. "Perhaps another time…?"

"Oh, but I'm afraid I really must insist," Sebastian replies, without turning his back. "Azazeal— bring him along, would you?"

Charles turns to Azazeal with a frown, but whatever questions he has die on his tongue. His lover's hand comes up to touch his forehead as if to brush away a lock of hair, and he feels a burst of power and warmth and then… darkness.

Azazeal is prepared when Charles falls into unconsciousness, and he catches him easily and cradles him to his chest. His eyes are as cold as steel.

"Where?" he bites out, and he doesn't even flinch when Janos and Viktor come up behind him.

"I've found a suitable place," Janos offers. "The old church at the peak… there are catacombs beneath."

Sebastian smirks. "How very droll," he says. "But good enough for our purpose, I suppose. Very well."

He turns away and begins to stride briskly forward, fully expecting Azazeal to follow. With Viktor and Janos flanking him, he needn't have bothered.

Azazeal had lost what little choice he had as soon as Sebastian arrived.

XII.

When Charles comes to, the first thing he registers is that he's in chains.

There are manacles on his wrists, tethered to what appears to be a stone table a few feet away. The floor is cold beneath him, and he rises unsteadily, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.

"A-Azazeal?" he calls out hesitantly. There are a handful of candles scattered around the cavern, barely giving him light enough to see his surroundings. The chamber is round and large, perhaps once used as storage space for whatever lay above. The air is cold.

"Azazeal?" Charles calls out again, biting his lip. He approaches the table and slides down beside it, resting his head against the cool stone. He can make out a doorway across the room, but his chains don't allow him enough slack to get near it. His only chance is to attempt to release himself from the source, but as he studies the iron at his wrists and the metal rungs nailed to the table, he realizes that it's a fruitless task.

A distant clang sounds from somewhere above him and he pauses, heart hammering in his chest. The last thing he remembers is Sebastian, ordering Azazeal to bring Charles to him, and Azazeal's warm voice assuring him that he would be all right.

Charles bites his lip, shrinking back against the table when he hears measured footsteps approach.

"Hello, Charles," Sebastian says, smiling as he walks into view. "I trust you're feeling well?"

"Where's Azazeal?" Charles demands, ignoring the question. "Why have you brought me here?"

Sebastian shrugs, approaching the table with measured strides. Charles watches warily as he props a hip against it, as casually as if they'd happened upon each other at the library.

"It may seem hard to believe, but the answers to your questions are more related than you think," Sebastian says, pausing. "It would be easier if… Yes, how would you like to hear a story, Charles? You're a bit old for it, I know, but it's quite entertaining."

"As if I had a choice in the matter," Charles mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go on."

Sebastian smiles thinly. "Your enthusiasm is duly noted," he says dryly, then clears his throat. "How do you people start these things, again? Ah, yes. Once upon a time…'

'There was an angel named Azazeal, who fell in love with a mortal boy." Charles breathes in sharply at the mention of his lover's name, but does not speak out.

"Contact between the astral and mortal planes had been forbidden by then, but Azazeal was foolish enough to believe that our father would not notice the transgression."

Sebastian meets Charles' gaze, his eyes filled not with stars as Azazeal's are, but with a bottomless abyss that has no end. "Suffice to say that he did indeed notice, and that he was not pleased by our disobedience," he says. "Our father had been absent for ages, you see, and there were those who did not think he would return. But return he did, and one day he looked down from the astral plane and saw that scores of angels had taken up with mortals, daring to fall in love with those he deemed unworthy."

And now Sebastian reaches out, grasping Charles' pointed chin between thumb and forefinger. "Can you guess what happened next, mortal?" he asks, and Charles twists free of his grip, shaken. "In his divine rage, he cast out every angel that dared to love a human, banishing them from the astral plane. Doomed to walk the earth for all eternity, unable to pass on, forced to watch as those we loved aged and died around us.'

'Thus is the curse that all of the nephelim must bear." Sebastian pushes away from the table, circling Charles. "But as it happens, the story isn't over just yet."

"We have it on good authority that our father has gone again, has been gone for centuries now, and this time it looks like he isn't coming back," Sebastian continues, smiling. "So there's really nothing stopping us from returning to the astral plane, provided we can find a way back."

Charles lifts his chin, glaring at Sebastian. "I fail to see how this relates to abducting me," he says, and the other chuckles.

"I'm getting to that, impatient one," Sebastian replies. "You see, what we need in order to get back to the astral plane is a bridge. The strongest kind of all—a mortal tether, bound by love to one of the nephelim, one who is willing to sacrifice all that he is for the sake of his beloved."

"A mortal bound by love?" Charles repeats, mouth dry. "You… Was Azazeal only…? I don't…" Staggered by the implications of it, he reaches out, holding on to the table for fear of his legs giving way.

"Come now," Sebastian says, sympathy dripping from his voice. "I have no doubt that Azazeal does love you. He gave up his world for you once, and he was able to find you again after you were reborn. Surely that must count for something?"

Sebastian puts a hand on his shoulder and is immediately rebuffed, Charles pulling away with so much force that he practically stumbles. "Don't touch me," he grinds out. "I don't… I don't want anything to do with you. Any of you. I'm not your mortal tether, and I won't help you return to your astral plane."

Charles takes a breath and turns his back on Sebastian, intent on dismissing him, but his next words stop him cold.

"Do you know how much punishment an immortal body can endure?" Sebastian asks conversationally. "We feel pain just the same as humans do. When you strike us, we fall. When you cut us, we bleed."

"The only difference between you and Azazeal," he continues. "Is that his torment can go on for eternity."

With that, Sebastian reaches out, touching a finger to Charles' wrists. The cuffs fall to the ground with a clatter. "We cannot force you to help us—the sacrifice must be a willing one," he says. "You're free to go."

And he turns on his heel and sweeps out of the chamber, leaving Charles alone in the dim light.

XIII.

Charles makes it all the way to ground level before he hesitates. Intellectually, he knows it's likely Sebastian was lying, but there's no way he can be certain. Azazeal has special abilities, true, but the other nephelim possess the same gifts. If they'd wanted to hurt him, Charles had no doubt that they could.

"He'll be fine," he whispers, trying to convince himself. He reaches what appears to be the top of the stairs and steps out into a ruined church. The night sky is glittering through a broken window above him and he can smell the damp, fresh air.

All he has to do is walk down the aisle and he'll be free.

He takes a step forward, then another, until he reaches the entrance. The steps leading to the caverns below are a lifetime away, and when he chances a glance back, only silence emanates. There are no clichéd sounds of torture, no pained screams. Azazeal could be well on his way to the other side of the country by now, and after all that Charles had discovered, there's no reason to save him.

And yet…

As angry as he is at the thought of being used, Charles can't deny that he loves Azazeal. He'd loved him since the day they first kissed, or perhaps even before that, when he first saw him through the window at Westchester.

Of course, if what Sebastian had said was true, Charles doesn't know if Azazeal reciprocates his love or is merely remembering an old memory—beset with him only because he resembles someone he'd once defied heaven for.

The very thought makes Charles ill, but he realizes that no matter Azazeal's true feelings for him, his own cannot be mistaken for anything less than real.

He swears softly under his breath and turns around, forcing himself to return to the staircase leading below. The tunnels beneath the church are numerous, and though Charles knows the chances of finding Azazeal and escaping with him are slim, he knows he has to try.

Azazeal's trenchcoat is hanging raggedly over his shoulders, smoke rising from the thick cloth. His arms and legs are chained to a particularly sturdy wall, runes of warding branded on the cuffs and burned into his skin. It isn't the worst shape he's ever been in, not yet, but the fact does little to comfort him. Only angels could be so cruel to their own kind.

"Is that it?" He asks, pausing to spit out a mouthful of blood. It spatters onto the stone floor, near Janos' feet. Azazeal eyes him grimly, but the nephelim refuses to meet his gaze.

No, it's Viktor who does all the dirty work, and he grabs Azazeal's chin between thumb and forefinger and bares his teeth. "Not nearly," he says. "But Sebastian was pretty specific. He didn't want me to mess up your pretty face."

"A pity," Azazeal says, biting back a strangled choke as claws slash mercilessly across his chest. He watches a dark red stain spread across his shirt, lifeblood streaming down. Nephelim heal faster than humans, but the process still takes time. It'll be hours before flesh and sinew reknit, possibly days before the wound heals completely. "Th-that was my favourite shirt."

Viktor's lip twists. "You always did have a smart mouth, even back then," he says. "This was all your fault, you know. Sebastian may have had more influence, but you… you were the first to break the law. It's your fault that we're all down here."

Azazeal laughs- a ragged sound. "Mortals have their free will, would you have me think our father gave us any less?" he asks, shaking his head. "I stayed on earth because father cast me out, but I would have stayed with Charles even if he hadn't. You did what you did for your own reasons—to lay blame on me for your own actions is the coward's way."

He lifts his chin, flicking his gaze towards Janos in the corner. "And you—would you blame me for your fall, as well? Did you not love your woman with every fiber of your being? Did you not think her worth the eternity that you lost?" He takes a breath. "And if it had been she who returned, would you offer her to Sebastian as quickly as you would Charles?"

Janos' dark eyes turn towards Viktor. "I—" he pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. "I swore an oath, just as you did, Azazeal. I would not go back on my word."

His presence flickers in the shadows, and he inclines his head. "Enough," he says. "You of all people should know what Sebastian is capable of, Azazeal. The only reason he didn't join the Morningstar during the rebellion was because he didn't want to be under another archangel's thumb."

He turns away, striding towards the door. "Think hard about your decision," he says. "We'll return in the morning for your answer."

Viktor leans in, and Azazeal's gaze is drawn to his sharp, pointed teeth. "Choose wisely," he warns. "I've got an eternity to kill on this miserable plane… and you'd make for a wonderful plaything."

He shuts the door with a clang, and Azazeal bows his head.

He has much to think about.

XIV.

Charles inches forward slowly, his eyes adjusting to the torch-lit tunnels. The scene looks like something out of a bad horror movie, but the menace in Sebastian's eyes had been all too real. Charles suppresses a shudder as he rounds a corner, murmuring softly as he commits his path to memory.

"Right, left, then straight down," he whispers.

As inhabited with fallen angels as it was now, these tunnels had been built by humans. The paths should make some logical sense. Catacombs had usually been built to house the dead of Romans, but the bannister descending down had looked fairly new; Charles hazards that the last occupants of the church had probably used a few of the chambers closer to the staircase as some sort of storage.

"If I was a sociopathic angel bent on imprisoning someone for an eternity, where would I put him?" Charles mutters, reaching out to grab a torch bracketed against the wall. "I would put him where humans would be unlikely to stumble across him… even if they so happened to renovate the old church above."

He reaches a fork in the path, eying the stone tombs barely visibly in the rooms to his left and right. "Four to a room; high-ranking men, but not so important to warrant their own chambers," he says. "The most important individuals would have their own chamber, surrounded by their officials according to rank."

He bites his lip, thankful once more that he'd paid attention at history lessons. He vaguely remembers the left path from where he'd been imprisoned earlier, and since there had been only one tomb in that chamber and Azazeal hadn't been in it, he could eliminate that path.

Which leaves only two directions—straight down or right. He swallows hard; as arrogant as these angels were, they'd probably choose the lesser tomb of import. It was less likely to be disturbed by curious humans.

He pushes away from the wall and takes off down the path on the right, torch flickering above him.

Charles knows he's picked the right path as soon as he hears the soft murmur of voices ahead. They're coming from the bend ahead, and he hastily drops his torch into a nearby empty bracket and flattens himself desperately behind a pillar.

"—telling you, Sebastian is full of it. We should have been back by now," the taller of the nephelim is saying, gesturing with a clawed hand. "Azazeal's losing his touch—we don't even know if that kid is really his human."

The other bows his dark head, torchlight touching his fair features. "He seemed fairly certain it was," he replies. "I doubt he would be so uncooperative if it was just any other mortal."

The taller man snorts derisively. "Don't tell me you buy into that crap," he says. "I mean, don't get me wrong—Ororo was a standup chick, but what we had back then, it was over the day she died. I've had centuries to stew on it, and as much as I loved her, I'd throw her into the fire myself if she came back."

"A pity that she didn't, then," the other says blithely, but there's something in his voice that makes Charles shift his feet on the stone floor. He sounds almost… wistful.

"You would do the same, Janos. Don't tell me you wouldn't."

Charles risks a glance behind the tomb to catch the other nephelim's (Janos, was it?) expression. He's frowning, dark eyes thoughtful, head cocked to the side as if listening intently. Charles holds his breath and tries desperately not to breathe too loudly.

"I made the same oath you all did," Janos says finally. "Just as Azazeal did. But I won't lie… I'm glad that Angel did not return."

"Careful, Janos," the taller nephelim says, looming over him with barely concealed menace. "Talk like that… you better make sure Sebastian doesn't hear."

He turns on his heel and walks briskly down the main passage, leaving the one called Janos in his wake.

Charles is almost shaking with the effort to keep himself still, but Janos hasn't made a move to leave. He's almost tempted to peer behind the pillar once more, but he can't risk being seen.

"Free will," Janos says finally, so softly that it appears as if he's talking to himself. "The freedom to love as we choose, to live where we will. It's difficult to believe that our father would give us, his firstborn, any less than what he would give humans."

He takes a step forward, reaching the pillar that Charles is hiding behind, but he goes no further. "The Morningstar rebelled millennia ago," he continues. "He fell, longer and harder than any of us, but it was his choice."

"I want to go home," Janos says quietly. "But if it were Angel… if it were Angel, who bore my sons, who I loved for three short decades before she passed on… I don't know what I'd do."

He reaches towards the torch beside him, extinguishing it with a gesture. "The choice is yours, Charles," he says. "But never forget that Azazeal has one, too."

Charles starts at the mention of his name, but by the time he's gathered the courage to step out from behind the pillar, Janos is gone.


End file.
